


don’t give me your heart, i can’t take it

by behindthec



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, F/F, Inspired by Killing Eve (TV 2018), RPF, Texting Shenanigans, and what if 4x01 started with a sex scene, behind-the-scenes shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25437319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindthec/pseuds/behindthec
Summary: If she’s still adapting to fame, Sandra is happy to be her anchor.Literally, if that’s what it takes.ORIncorrect Sandra & Jodie Quotes [5/5]
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Sandra Oh/Jodie Comer
Comments: 315
Kudos: 636





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’d say this is the RPF no one asked for, but that would be a lie. Don't let the angsty title fool you; this is basically crack.
> 
> This sin is dedicated to everyone on Tumblr who encouraged it. I hope it’s worth my eternal damnation, for which you’re all responsible.
> 
> (If I got any facts or timelines wrong, forgive me. Title from [here](https://genius.com/Unloved-cry-baby-cry-lyrics). Inspired by [this](https://metro.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/GettyImages-1176459102.jpg?quality=90&strip=all), [this](https://i0.wp.com/media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/thumbor/BpuU42g2UquzUf5sw_KRDvkCCkk/fit-in/1200x630/filters:format_auto-!!-:strip_icc-!!-:fill-!white!-/2019/09/26/832/n/1922398/a374a2715d8d0a64dcc932.33375591_.jpg?w=1220&ssl=1), [this](https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/thumbor/5zCVD432CBKGjLUqabdXbbvPBqw/fit-in/1024x1024/filters:format_auto-!!-:strip_icc-!!-/2019/04/02/931/n/1922398/46ac1d85a42b9656_GettyImages-1139814687/i/Killing-Eve-Premiere-Photos-April-2019.jpg), [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LrtWAed1YK4), 2:06–2:11 of [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JK51l3alEjs&feature=youtu.be&t=126)… etc.)

The first time… isn’t. Not really.

She’s kissed women before—quite a bit more than that, in fact—not as a habit, per se; too many emotions, too many risks in a too-judgmental world—but it’s happened.

Not in a long time—and never anyone quite so lovely as Jo, granted, but.

It’s happened.

Ending up in a hotel bed together isn’t new, either, nor the way she’d been draped over Sandra since two drinks in as soon as they’d made it to one of the press-free shindigs.

Alcohol is the great eraser of boundaries—at least for Jo, at least when it comes to Sandra, who’s never let herself wonder whether she’s the exception or the rule.

(That party at Phoebe’s, the one with the hot tub, when she’d spent an hour in Sandra’s lap, monopolizing her bubble jets and chatting away at double martini volume with anyone who’d listen, bracing herself with long fingers curled around Sandra’s shoulder whenever she felt close to sliding off her small, slippery thighs—or the Globes back in January, when they’d skipped out early on the parties and fell asleep watching _You’ve Got Mail_ on Sandra’s bed surrounded by five trays of room service, right after Jo had announced half-awake that nineties Meg Ryan was a babe, then asked “Have you ever been with a woman?” and passed out while Sandra was working up an intelligent, professional reply.)

Okay, maybe she’s wondered.

Not that it matters. Jo’s a lot more fragile than her talents lead everyone to believe, and lord knows this industry will grind her to a pulp and spit her out first chance they get.

If she’s still adapting to fame, Sandra is happy to be her anchor.

Literally, if that’s what it takes.

-

“How does—how does it _work_?”

She’s managed to extract the hotel key card from her bag and inspects it up close, one eye squinted shut. Her airy Scouse gets somehow looser yet more pronounced the more she drinks—light, elevated vowels elongate in a series of parabolic curves, up and down—but even after two years, it’s still adorable as shit.

Sandra snatches the card from her and swipes it against the metal plate below the doorknob, instantly denied by a flash of red.

“Um. Magnets, I think?” She swipes again.

“Oh!” Jodie’s eyes widen. “Like the episode.”

“What?”

“The show, with the blue drugs, and the science teacher, and the chicken man, and the _magnets_.”

“...Breaking Bad?”

“No, no, _no_.”

Sandra laughs as the final swipe pulses green and clicks to bid them admittance. She watches Jodie tumble inside, all limbs, kick off her shoes with a groan of relief, wriggle out of her slinky white dress as gracelessly as one could expect, and replace it with a soft pair of gym shorts and a floppy t-shirt.

“Ooh!” She spins around with fresh vigor. “Do you want a drink?”

“Nice try, go brush your teeth.” Sandra dumps her purse on the TV console and reaches for an unopened Snickers next to the remote. “I’m putting you to bed.”

“But the night is _young_!”

“It’s three in the morning, darling. You won an Emmy and drank your weight in tequila, I think you’ve officially made the most of your evening.”

Jodie shoots her a toothy, triumphant grin and disappears into the bathroom.

Her room is a disaster. Sandra resists the urge to tidy.

Well, almost. She does nudge a few pairs of shoes against the wall, lest the kid trip over them in the middle of the night, before letting herself collapse on the nearest half of the bed and willing her eyes not to close.

She fails, and awakens with a jarring _thump_ on the mattress beside her.

“Hi.”

Jodie is propped on her side, breathless and beaming.

“Hi.” Sandra turns to face her and pushes herself up on her elbow as best she can, given the constraints of her gown. “Goodnight.”

“Already?”

“I know this may come as a shock to your blossoming youth, but some of us actually require sleep.” She leans in and drops a kiss on her forehead. “Call me if you need me to hold your hair over the toilet.”

“No, no, stay!” Jodie reaches out and grasps at her arms. “Stay. Your room is so far.”

“It’s two floors up.”

“Stay. You can wear my clothes.”

“Okay, okay. You lunatic.”

Jodie smiles, content, and reaches up to card five long fingers through Sandra’s fallen hair, a far cry from its original red carpet posture.

“Sandra. Sandy. Does anyone call you Sandy?”

“Um, not twice.”

Jodie throws her head back and laughs. “That’s funny.”

“I’m kidding, you can call me whatever you want.”

“No, your name is so pretty. _Sandra_. _You’re_ pretty. You’re _so_ pretty! Pretty in pink, I love this dress, it’s so _pretty_.”

Sandra smiles. “God, you are gonna hate yourself tomorrow.”

“I’m not! I had fun, you’re so _fun_ , did you have fun?”

“Yes, I had fun.”

“Oh my god.” Jo’s face falls in an instant, deadly serious. “You should have won.”

“What? No, fuck that.”

She withdraws a bit but Jodie tugs her back, holds her face with both hands.

“It should have been you.”

“Honey—“

“You’re _amazing_ and it’s so unfair, I wanted to take you up there with me, I felt so _stupid_ —”

“Hey. Stop it.” Sandra covers one of Jo’s hands with her own, resting together on her cheek, and looks her straight in the eye through the handful of dimly lit inches between them. “You deserve every accolade you’ll ever get in your life. Got it? You are _brilliant_. You more than earned your place on that stage.”

“But— _mph_.”

Her protest is lost in Sandra’s palm as she claps her hand over Jodie’s mouth and smiles.

“Nope.”

Sandra makes no effort to remove it, but she can see ( _feel_ ) the smile spreading against her skin, and a moment later, the slimy wet swipe of a tongue.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” She yanks her hand away and rubs it against the nearest corner of sheet. “Gross. You’re a child.”

She isn’t sure if Jo hears any of it over her own giggles, but Jo can go fuck herself.

“Thought this role was a stretch for you.” Sandra leans back and tucks her hands safely away to herself. “Apparently not.”

Jodie grins and tugs her down until their noses nearly bump.

“Maybe not,” she says, and kisses her.

Sandra is almost too tired to think this is anything out of the ordinary—so if it takes her a full second to pull away, she’s got a perfectly good excuse.

“Wait, what?”

Jo smiles up at her with sparkling eyes, unfazed. “Why’ve we never done that?”

“Oh. Um. Wow. _So_ many reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Uh. We’re. You’re. It’s not—”

Jodie smiles wider and kisses her again.

For fuck’s _sake_.

You know what? Fine. It’s a goddamn _kiss_ , not marriage. They’re both adults, and Jo is vibrantly alive with an energy Sandra’s only ever felt on set, the kind that shuts out the rest of the world, everything but the two of them—

(Is this where it comes from? Is _this_ what’s beneath it?)

 _—_ not to mention, Jo is intensely warm and soft at the worst of times—but now, with the buzz of the night, the rush of adrenaline, the youthful overindulgence—all the warmth and softness seems to have pooled in her lips, her hands, her— _fuck_ , her tongue, which has now slipped into Sandra’s mouth to slide slowly against her own, and oh, of course—of _course_ she’s fucking _sensational_ at kissing like she is at everything else. What an asshole.

Once she’s sorted through each of these thoughts one by one, Sandra is too far gone to realize she’s pressing her hips down, seeking contact, friction, _more_ —until Jo makes the tiniest noise of approval in the back of her throat, and _surprise_ —that’s hot.

Oh, crap.

No, _nonono_.

Sandra freezes, momentarily pliant, and Jodie takes the opportunity to grab hold of her waist and flip them over.

Which is, quite frankly, supremely unfair considering one of them is trapped in a very expensive and not particularly movement-friendly _ball gown_ and the other’s in goddamn PJs.

Jo doesn’t seem to notice or care because she’s right back at it, softly sealing their mouths together like they’ve been doing this for hours, only now there are _hands_ , deft fingers tugging at the folds of her dress with unmistakable purpose, and Sandra is suddenly, very, awake.

“Jo—”

Sandra manages to reconnect her brain with her hands, locate one of them tangled in Jo’s hair (the _fuck_?), and splay it gently across Jo’s chest to press a few precious units of space between them.  
  
“Honey. Wait. Stop.”

She does. That’s the thing, isn’t it, she always follows Sandra’s lead. It’s always felt natural to just _listen_ to each other—they never really argue on set, they simply build upon each other’s vision—(how far does that go?)—but—

Let’s be real.

Jo’s never looked at her like this on set: chest heaving, pupils blown, cheeks flushed; perfect hair fallen in frizzy strands around her face.

Christ. Sandra did that.

“What?”

“We can’t do this.”

Jo legit _pouts_. “Why?”

“Because you’re _tanked_ , my love.”

“I’m _fiiine_!”

Sandra laughs, rolls them back over with a springy bounce and pushes herself up.

“No, don’t go.” Jo flails at her, reaching for her hand. “Please? Stay, you don’t have to kiss me.”

“Oh my god, you make it sound like a _chore_ , Jesus.”

Jo grins, broad and satisfied.

“I’m gonna go get you some water, okay?”

“Okay, will you stay?”

Sandra sighs. “I’ll stay.”

In the bathroom, she takes her time washing out the nearest glass and rinsing thoroughly. She zeroes in her focus on the _crack_ of the water bottle cap as she twists, the _glug_ as it splashes into the tumbler. She can do this. This, she can do. This makes sense.

“Hey,” Jodie calls from the bed. “Will you put some of those… those cold water squares in it?”

Sandra blinks. “You mean _ice cubes_?”

“No. Yes!”

This loser won an Emmy tonight.

Sandra considers reminding her, but when she reaches the bed, there’s already a rhythm of baby-soft snores spilling from parted lips.

She tugs the crinkled bedding out from under Jo’s feet and slides it up over the curled length of her body, tucking it around her sides like a burrito. There’s a baggy looking t-shirt a few feet away, and Sandra claims it. Her dress is a bitch to wriggle out of on her own, but she manages, slides into cool cotton and locates a pair of flannel PJ pants on the floor. They’re miles too long on her, but what does it matter.

It doesn’t.

Not until she crawls under the sheets, and it’s all there.

Jo’s scent—softer now, end-of-day faded: earthy citrus and the ghost of vanilla—is everywhere. In the room, in the sheets, in her clothes, the ones Sandra’s fucking _wearing_ , and by now it’s probably all over Sandra’s skin.

Because _that_ happened.

Sandra closes her eyes, but Jo’s face is too close. Her soft exhales reach across the inches, erasing them one by one.

It’s gonna be a long night.

-

They are no cliche.

There is no horrified, hungover awakening to reveal tangled bodies and unexplained nudity when the sun pierces their eyelids mid-morning. Jo sleeps like a starfish, limbs shot outward in an X across the entire expanse of California king—though she’s graciously spared Sandra a six-inch spread of mattress that spills over the edge.

The kid is nothing if not generous.

Jo squints into a smile. “What’re you doing here?”

“You asked me to stay.”

“And you stayed?”

She doesn’t sound displeased. Rather the opposite, though it’s hard to tell under the haze of sleep and the stale hint of morning-after tequila that hits the air between them.

“So it would seem,” Sandra says.

“Did I do anything stupid?”

What a subjective word, really.

“No.” Sandra smiles. “You were fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I snogged the shit out of you, didn’t I?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, y’all came back? Shameless. 😉

Eleven.

That’s how many times Sandra is asked to lean up on the seat of a public bus and press her lips to Jo’s, _Villanelle’s_ —eyes wide fucking open.

Because cameras, and angles, and the driver hit a pothole and once Jodie sneezed and neither of them could get back into it for five whole minutes and _Sandra, could you just stare at her a little longer before you move in?_

There’s a shift after the seventh take, the barest fluctuation of plate tectonics: altogether immense while scarcely detectable.

(Does it count as an earthquake if it never breaches the surface?)

To everyone else, the moment Jo drops character is the moment her voice snaps back to default, a lilted octave higher with a disparate set of vowels—but Sandra always sees it sooner. It looks like nothing, really, just a spark in her eye, not betrayed by any parallels in her neighboring features—but to Sandra it is utterly distinct. Intuitive. She can’t remember a time when she couldn’t see it.

She wonders if Jo’s ever noticed.

On the ninth take, something deep and alive and _real_ has returned behind her eyes, filled back up the space she’d emptied for Villanelle.

The eleventh take is—

Embarrassing.

By then she knows, Sandra knows she knows, it’s a fucking _Friends_ gag audienced by thirteen crew.

It’s the tenth, the point of singularity, that captures Villanelle’s return to Jodie on six different cameras.

It’s the tenth that makes it to final—immortalized by two million eyes the world over.

-

There is not enough liquor in Sandra’s trailer.

There is probably not enough liquor in anyone’s trailer, not that she’s keen to go knocking on doors.

Unlike Jo, it would seem, who raps three times after Sandra’s fourth swig of whisky.

“Come in.”

A damp, shaggy blonde head pokes through. She’s showered off her camera makeup and swapped the tailored grey suit for jeans and a knit jumper that’s too long in the sleeves, stretching down over linked, fidgeting fingers. They separate only long enough to tug the door shut behind her.

“Hey.”

Sandra smiles and waggles the bottle above her head. “Drink?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?”

“I snogged the shit out of you, didn’t I?”

“What?”

“After the Emmys.”

Oh. God. _Oh_.

Apparently this was a vocalized thought, unbeknownst to Sandra, if the look on Jo’s face is any indication.

“Oh my god, I did.”

“Um.” Sandra blinks. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I—I don’t know!” Sandra starts to push herself off the couch and immediately reconsiders—Jo’s pacing now, so many limbs in such a tight space, and— “I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed.”

“This is so much worse!” Jo stops, eyes wide. “I’ve had _dreams_ about it, you know? I couldn’t figure out where they were coming from, I just thought, ‘well all right, this is new,’ and—oh, fuck, it actually _happened_.”

“Oh—shit. Fuck.”

Sandra gets to her feet, takes a couple of steps toward her, timid.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just—I didn’t want anything to ruin your night, and you asked if you’d done anything stupid, and I didn’t want you to feel stupid—not that it _was_ stupid, it wasn’t, it was—fine. Nice. It was—very, quite, nice—but you were so, _so_ drunk, I couldn’t let you—I mean, we couldn’t—”

Fuck’s sake. She really ought to do more improv.

“Oh my god,” Jo laments into splayed palms. “What did I _do_?”

“Nothing! Nothing. You just—kissed me, a little, and I didn’t stop you, so you... y’know... kept going.”

Jodie stares at her, mouth slack.

“Oh—no—not—” Sandra backtracks, “nothing happened. I pushed you off, and—”

“You had to _push me off_?”

“No! No, not like that! You were just… excited. And drunk, _really_ drunk, did I mention?”

“Yeah, got that bit.”

“Look—seriously. It’s fine. I went to get you some water, and when I came back, you’d passed out. That was it.”

Jo stares at her skeptically for a long time, frees the breath she’d been keeping hostage in her lungs, and skulks over to the sofa.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, folding her legs up beneath her. “I’m not like—this isn’t some stupid gay freakout, or whatever, I don’t care about that, it’s just. It’s _you_.”

Sandra chuckles and sits down beside her. “‘It’s me’?”

“I mean. Yeah?”

“Should I be offended?”

Jo rolls her eyes. Sandra tucks her hands into her lap.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“No, it’s—fine. You were being… diplomatic.”

“Yeah, let’s go with that.”

Jo looks up at her, brow furrowed, and Sandra sighs.

“I mean. It was selfish, too. It would’ve been awkward. I’m not good with awkward.”

Jo smirks. “I’m gettin’ that.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.”

“Guess I’ll have to, since you won’t have me.”

Sandra laughs openly and hits her with a pillow. “Come here, you jackass.”

She pulls at Jo’s arm until Jo scoots closer, crunches in to lean her head against Sandra’s shoulder.

Normal. It feels normal.

They got past it.

If there’s a new layer of electricity crackling between them, it could only be good for the show. Sandra closes her eyes. Breathes it in.

Jo has a new shampoo. Or did it always smell like almonds?

“What other stupid things did I do?” Jo asks quietly.

“Nothing.”

“C'mon, you have to tell me now.”

“Sorry to disappoint. You had a… targeted focus.”

Jo pinches her side and Sandra laughs, squirming away.

“What made you remember all of a sudden?”

“The bus.” Jo shrugs against her. “Lookin’ down at you.”

“Deja vu.”

“Mm.”

The quiet that expands between them is easy, a companionable comfort. As safe as it gets.

“It was better,” Sandra says.

“What?”

“It was better than the bus. Just _eff why eye_.”

Jo snorts. “Course it bloody was.”

Sandra smiles.

“Are we good?”

Jo tilts her head up. “Was _I_?”

“Oh my god.”

“Kidding.”

“You’re not, are you?”

“No, I wanna know!”

Sandra sighs as dramatically as possible. “You were fine.”

“Wow.”

“Oh shut up, you know perfectly well you’ve got first-class makeout skills.”

“Well, I do now.”

“You’re a wild asshole.”

“Cheers.”

Their hands brush on the seat between them, unintended. Sandra imagines she’d get more shit for pulling away, so she leaves hers in place.

Jo pokes at her palm with one finger. “Stupid unfair I can’t remember it.”

“And whose fault is that, miss ‘no really, I can hold my drink’?”

“Wouldn’t have happened at all without the tequila, now would it?”

“Oh, so you need hard liquor to kiss me? Flattering.”

Jo grabs hold of the pillow and flings it against Sandra’s lap with a lazy _thwack_.

“Utter twat.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Sandra huffs, and Jo nestles closer.

Yeah, it’s fine.

They’re fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re not. 😂


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I bet it’s like riding a bike.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, sinners.

“Oh, bugger, I can’t dance.”

“Bullshit.”

Jo’s face emerges from behind her script with a smirk. “Not _proper_ dancin’.”

“What is ‘proper’?”

“I dunno! Ballroom?”

Sandra snorts and flips a page. “It’s waltzing in place, honey, not _Dirty Dancing_.”

The rustling of paper disappears into thin air. Sandra looks up into a wicked, toothy smile.

“Oh, hell no.”

“I could totally lift you.”

“Nope.”

“Oh, come _on_.” Jo bounces to her feet and extends a hand, tugs Sandra out of her seat. “ _Now I’ve… had… the time of my li-i-ife…_ ”

She laughs as Jo spins her on the spot. “Were you even alive when that came out?”

“I was… close to being alive.”

“How close?”

Jo smiles against her, cheek to cheek as they sway dramatically from side to side, eyes safely on opposite walls. “Six years off?”

“Oh, lord.”

“Bite me!”

“Not in the script.”

Jo dips her in response, a full, heart-dropping freefall to the last moment, when strong arms spare Sandra’s head from the hardwood looming below.  
  
“‘Not proper dancing’ my ass.”

Jodie grins.

-

**_We close in on EVE’s face as she comes to  
a stop. The inner conflict is palpable. Slowly,  
she turns around. VILLANELLE has also  
stopped walking, but is still facing away.  
EVE waits, wondering if she will turn._ **

**_CUT TO BLACK_ **

-

The thing is—

There was never a bridge.

No monsters, no tea dances, no turns. In the first draft, she tells Eve to walk away, and Eve does or doesn’t, cliffhanger, roll credits. They’d even filmed it. Hated it. Said so.

Luckily, everyone else had too.

Jo is stock-still on the cluttered trailer floor, cross-legged and upright with a studio-branded mug in one hand and a smattering of rewrites in the other. The steam coats her glasses, hot and humid, but she squints through the lenses, never blinking. The pages are crisp, unmarked—high contrast from the crimped and colored chunks of script she’s usually carrying around set, clipped in place by a rainbow of highlighters.

“I don’t want to rehearse this.”

“What?”

Jo drops the pages into her lap and looks up. “I don’t want to rehearse this.”

“Oh—kay.”

“Do you?”

It’s an odd question, to be fair; they’ve never _not_ rehearsed, after all, even if it’s little more than blocking or choreography—but something contagious in her resolve catches fire, digs its claws in and takes hold.

“No.”

“Let’s wing it.”

Sandra smiles. “Let’s wing the shit out of it.”

-

_"Stand up straight and look at me.”_

A spark flares in Jo’s eyes that first time, flickers and fades in the unmeasured span of a clipped inhale.

On the second take, back to back, Sandra detects a new ingredient: the slightest pressure of a solid, familiar weight, setting up the backward tip of Jo’s head against hers—a taste of intimacy too strong to deny but impossible to identify.

On the third take, Jodie turns.

-

A clunky beer mug and stemless wine glass clink discordantly, unbefitting to the prize champagne that splashes up the sides in tiny, glittering waves.

Sandra is reminded of black gossamer—Alexander McQueen beneath the folds of a puffy overcoat.

She smiles.

“Gonna miss you.”

Jo looks her in the eye as she says it, and the twist of champagne pooling in Sandra’s belly warms on contact.

“Mm,” she says simply.

“‘Gonna miss you too, Jo, have a good holiday, Jo, good call on the improv, Jo...’”

Sandra rolls her eyes. “How ‘bout finish your champagne and let me sleep, Jo?”

Jodie pouts. “No celebratin'?”

“Oh, there will be celebrating,” Sandra assures her, setting her glass on the compact Formica countertop. “Me, my sweatpants, and a cup of orange hibiscus tea. Par- _tay_.”

“That floral abomination is _not_ tea.”

“I can’t have caffeine this late!”

“You’re so old.”

“I can kick you out of this trailer, you know that, right? Legally.”

Jo grins. “I’d love to see you try.”

“Wanker.”

“Aw, you _are_ gonna miss me.”

“I’m gonna miss your country, I didn’t say I’d miss _you_.”

Jodie gasps, mock offended, and Sandra relents, leaning in to peck her on the cheek. Jo takes the bait and traps her in a one-armed hug with her drink-free hand until Sandra drops her head to a warm, waiting shoulder.

She keeps her distance—mentally, if nothing else. Jo’s pulse flutters vividly in the curve of her neck where Sandra’s cheek rests, the lightest reminder of raw humanity. Next strikes the hint of fresh toothpaste, the years-worn softness of a cotton tee, and the fiery rush of alcohol still buzzing on Sandra’s own tongue—a warning that, just now, her mind is not entirely her own.

Too much, too same, too...

“Idiot,” Sandra sighs fondly, but it sounds like something else.

-

  
  


_**INT. VILLANELLE’S HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT** _

**_We open on chaos. EVE and VILLANELLE  
_ _are already down to undergarments,  
_ _kissing frantically against the doors  
_ _and walls of an elegant en-suite._**

Sandra’s grip tightens on her glass, for the contents of which she is suddenly very, very grateful.

She might be even more grateful that her first pass is happening in the privacy of her own home a continent away and not a cozy London table read with Jo and her goddamn perfume seated across.

Her phone buzzes halfway through the first scene and she’s not even surprised—a snapshot of the same page followed by an uncountable number of exclamation points. She takes a greedy, bracing swig of her Pinot and types back.

_...Guess I’m gonna start jogging again_

Jo fires back without pause:

 _😂😂😂  
_ _Please don’t  
_ _I’ve eaten nothing but bread during quarantine_

 _Oh this is gonna be hot  
_ _They can just roll us onto set_

_😂_

Another minute passes; another snapshot—

**_VILLANELLE lifts EVE into her arms.  
_ _EVE’s legs encircle her waist as_ _VILLANELLE  
pins her against the wall, _ _never breaking  
their kiss. A generic _ _hotel painting  
rattles in its frame._ **

—followed immediately by

 _HELLO  
_ _Brb doing pushups_

_Should I be offended_

_OMG woman  
_ _I’m just weak_

_If you drop me Comer I swear to god_

_Now I’m offended!_

_❤️_

_We gonna wing this one too?_

_Oh sure. With an entire bottle of whisky_

_Now I’m REALLY offended_

_If your ego can forgive me, MILADY, it’s_ _been awhile since I’ve stripped on camera_

_I bet it’s like riding a bike_

_Sure  
_ _If the bike is a whole head taller than me,_ _20 yrs younger and does pilates every day_

 _21  
_ _And a half  
_ _😉_

_WOW_

_😘😘😘_

_Asshole_

_Asshole who’s about to be your first lesbian sex scene_

_You very nearly were  
_ _Oh wait that’s right  
_ _You were too drunk to remember  
_ _Cause you’re in your TWENTIES_

 _😵  
_ _AGEISM_

 _Welcome to showbiz, kid  
_ _It’s only downhill from here ;)_

_Speaking of down..._

Sandra waits. Her stomach lurches into her chest and plummets back to her core. She knows what’s coming, but she’ll never be ready.

**_VILLANELLE slides down EVE’s body,_ _  
__peppering kisses across her skin._ _  
__EVE’s back arches as VILLANELLE_ _  
__settles between her legs._ **

_Christ on a stick_ _  
__I have to wax_

_I won’t if you won’t_

_Oh thank god_

Jo shoots off a winky face. Sandra flips her phone onto its front, closes her eyes, and falls back against the sofa.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck _me_ , for fuck’s sake. 😐


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sandra is a goddamn professional._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the delay. Thank you all for your loyalty and patience. 😘

Sandra is a goddamn professional. And professionals do not drink.

Well—

Not during a course of filming, at least.

Well—

Not _on the job_.

Nor certainly not the night before a scene that’s been three years in the making—can’t risk a hangover, a cloudy head; she’s not too keen on getting griped at by makeup over puffy eyes, either.

Goddamn professional. A pro’s pro.

So she’s sober when they decide not to rehearse.

She’s sober when Jo drops her clothes—

Sober when they block the shots—

Sober when she hears _Action!_ —

—and piss-drunk the moment Jo’s lips touch hers.

“Cut.”

There is a god. Better late than never.

Their eyes meet, and Sandra prays to every deity she doesn’t believe in that her own face doesn’t look as wrecked, flushed, and thoroughly fucked as Jo’s.

Jo points vaguely in the direction of Sandra’s hair and bursts out laughing.

-

Rogue flyaways remedied.

Body makeup reapplied.

Heart rates reset. Allegedly.

Sandra chugs water in between takes and pretends it’s vodka.

Jo chats incessantly as they stand opposite one another, all nerves and one baby-step away from naked as the crew resets the props, remakes the bed, straightens the painting on the wall. Sandra laughs when she thinks she should, forgets every word that leaves her mouth the moment it’s out, and prays some more—this time that the gods will mercifully delete the memory of Jo’s feverish, glowing skin against hers; the press of their hips, the cool _thump_ of Sandra’s back against the wallpaper and Jo’s quiet, out-of-character _Sorry!_ ; Sandra’s legs curled around the taut muscles and hourglass curves of Jo’s waist, held securely in place with strong, capable arms.

The goddamn punk had upped her workouts.

The kissing she can handle. They’ve kissed before. The taste and shape of Jo’s mouth, albeit prepped for the job with fresh mint and cinnamon, belonged to Sandra in a time and place before cameras, before scripts, before a make-believe room with scheduled movements. That remains hers, theirs.

 _You don’t get that_ , she tells the audience, defensive. Telepathically, of course.

But _this_ kissing comes with noises, comes with looks, comes with a crew of twenty under hot set lights, and they always say it’s fake, of course, it’s just television, it’s just acting, it isn’t real—but the experience is real. The smell of Jo’s perfume and shampoo and sweat is real. The curl of her fingers around Sandra’s hipbone is real. The stuttered breath in Sandra’s ear is real. Swollen lips on the curve of Sandra’s neck and the weight of Jo’s breasts against hers are overwhelmingly, achingly _real_.

Lucky for Sandra, so is the rum in her trailer.

-

Jo doesn’t knock this time. Doesn’t offer much by way of greeting, either—simply opens the door and stares.

 _Not very British of you_ , Sandra almost says, joking, but she’s only one drink in and nothing’s as fuzzy as it should be—least of all Jodie, crystal clear, skin shiny and pink from her shower. What’s left of her mascara has morphed into a thick, smudgy row of eyeliner that hadn’t scrubbed off. It looks a little emo, which makes Sandra smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

She waves the bottle by its neck. “Want a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

Ah, there’s the Brit.

Sandra puts a great deal of effort into ensuring the level of liquid matches up between the glasses, unwilling to appear either greedy or forward.

“Been saving this for a special occasion,” she admits.

“Oh, don’t waste it on me, then!”

Sandra looks up at her. “I’m not.”

It’s honest. Nothing special would ever be wasted on this strange, precious loon. She considers telling Jodie so, but unsure how anyone would react to being called a loon under such circumstances (even a precious one), she bites her tongue.

A synchronized drop lands them on the lumpy trailer sofa with their hips pressed together, drinks in hand, and not a sound in the world until Jodie tips her head back, glass to lips. The amber disappears down her throat and Sandra echoes as best she can, but chugging’s never been her strength.

In succession, two tumblers smack gracelessly on the table.

Fucking _now_ what?

“I—” Jodie starts quietly. “Can’t… stop…”

Sandra turns to face her, and Jodie sighs.

“Have I totally cocked it up?”

Sandra grins, strangely relieved. “No, honey.”

“Then tell me what to—”

Sandra kisses her.

It’s only lips, as other bits haven’t yet been granted permission—soft, but not without purpose, and certainly not unwelcome, if Jo’s quick enthusiasm is any clue.

It’s easier, then, to be close, once the tension has burst—to let their foreheads bump, to breathe into each other’s space without a camera in their faces, even if each inhale is a little shakier than the last.

“Is that what you want?”

Jo nods. “You?”

Sandra sighs. “I don’t usually let myself take what I want.”

Jodie’s lips are close at her ear, air-brushing over the shell on a breezy-soft exhale that flutters straight to the depth of Sandra’s core.

“Make an exception.”

-

They should be wiped out. Rightfully, rationally _weary_.

Notwithstanding a day of filming stark naked as the day they were born should be enough to kill the vibe regardless of energy, because no matter how sexy the end result may appear on your screen, the work itself is anything but.

Instead, the exhaustion converts to an entirely new form of energy, some yet unnamed chemical reaction that is wholly their own, creating itself into complex shapes under each slick of a tongue, each surprised inhale, each newly discovered touch, taste, smell; each tense ripple of skin newly exposed, explored, exhilarated.

Liberation, beautifully unscripted.

“Have you done this before?” Jodie asks, breathless, looming over her between a wild frame of hair.

“I mean.” Sandra shrugs. “Not with _you_.”

Jodie buries her face in Sandra’s neck and laughs. Like a fucking loon.

-

“This was an absolutely terrible idea.”

As pillow talk goes, this may not be Sandra’s most shining moment—but the announcement comes without plausible conviction, and when she turns her head, Jodie’s smirking.  
  
“Not unless you fall in love with me.”

“You idiot, how could anyone not fall in love with you?”

“Fair point.”

Sandra bats weakly at her arm, but Jo catches her hand, holding it close between their sides. Flat on their backs, slowing breaths and beats, they scan the ceiling for answers.

“You think they’ll know?” Sandra asks.

“Who?”

“Anyone. Everyone!”

“Well not unless you _bloody tell them_.”

“I’m gonna.”

“Course you are. Take out an ad in the _Mail_ , shall we?”

“Front page.”

“Canadian cougar courts Liverpool starlet.”

Sandra snorts. “You’re too old to be a starlet. And I’m not old enough to be a cougar!”

“Tell it to the journalists.”

Sandra laughs and flips them over.

She was wrong.

It was the _worst_ idea. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, it's a _great_ idea.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Go on, ask me._

The trailer bed is noisy, but the ancient four-poster in the B&B outside Geneva is _sinfully_ worse.

The small, white-haired Swiss woman who delivers their breakfast does not look them in the eye, and Jodie bursts out laughing the moment the door shuts, pulling Sandra back onto the bed, croissant in hand.

No one asks, but the makeup team does a bang-up job with the dark purple splotch on the top of Sandra’s hip. Jo watches them work, smirking proudly from her chair as Villanelle’s fresh red cut is repainted across her cheek.

Sandra plots her revenge.

-

“D’you think we’ll ruin the show?” Jodie asks casually between swipes of mascara.

Sandra looks up from the bed, slides her glasses slowly down her nose for effect. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know, like on _Friends_ , the rule about sleepin’ with your co-star.”

Sandra blinks.

“Joey! He started shaggin’ the girl in his play and their sex scenes turned to shit. Or somethin’ like that?”

“You lost me, honey.”

“You haven’t watched _Friends_?!”

“You think our scenes are gonna be shit?!”

“Nah, we’re too good. Answer the question!”

“I’ve watched… some _Friends_?”

“Oh, my god.” Jo side-eyes her through the mirror. “What am I gonna do with you.”

“Considering I can’t functionally _walk_ at the moment, I think you’ve done enough.”

Jo grins wickedly. Sandra throws a newspaper at her.

-

Paris is not romantic.

Everyone smokes everywhere all the time, every meal is a thousand calories and they’re all cheese. Sandra’s French is too Canadian to impress anyone, and every day is unexpectedly sweltering.

But—

They spend their weekend off outside Versailles, tucked away under (and over) the crisp white sheets of a villa where no one knows their names.

Sandra watches Jo stretch against the open, full-length window in nothing but a pair of lacy blue panties, chatting away to her family with her phone on speaker while Sandra remains dutifully silent, and thinks it’s a very good thing they’ve got only a week left.

Jo catches her eye and smiles through her words, a secret, and Sandra’s heart flips.

Yeah… a very good thing indeed.

-

Hard to top the bridge, or Hadrian’s Villa for that matter—but as finale climax locations go, the chateau was a solid pick.

Sandra finds it difficult to reconcile the expanse before her with the gallons of stage blood staining the grounds behind them, awaiting cleanup. She can still feel it sticky under her fingernails, even after endless scrubbing and two showers. Should make for an interesting trip through airport security—but truth be told, she’s in no hurry for it to wash away. Little souvenirs like this are all they have after wrap, in the end.

The surface of the lake is still—deceptively smooth without betraying the mysteries buried in its depths.

Sandra finds herself in envy.

“I missed being in Paris with you.”

Sandra smiles at the grass beneath their feet. “Me too.”

“When’s your flight?”

“Six a.m.”

Jodie makes a face that is all Villanelle, right down to the unwarranted personal offense, and Sandra can’t help but smile.

“I know, fuck me, right?

“I _would_ , but you’d give me some crap about getting to bed early.”

Sandra laughs. It’s genuine, but hollow.

“God, this sucks.”

“It’s your fault for living so far.”

Sandra sighs. “I know.”

“You don’t _have_ to go yet, you know.”

“Oh god, I wish. Do you want to see my calendar? Uh, ‘diary’?”

“Chuck it. Come back to Liverpool for a few weeks.”

“You mean. Your parents’ house?”

Jodie folds in on herself, cringing. “...Yes?”

“Just... _imagine_ the press. Imagine it.”

“You think they’d call me a homewrecker?”

“I’m not even married!”

“Oh, but I’ve always wanted to be called a homewrecker!”

“You have… unique dreams.”

She can feel the radiance of Jo’s smile, cast into highlight by the late afternoon rays that have defied all odds to pierce through thick, heavy clouds, laying a vibrant blanket of yellow warmth over the much awaited chill that finally settled over the city.

“Come home with me. Mum and Dad love you. _I_ love you.”

Her voice sounds light. Casual. Yes or no wouldn’t make a difference, would it?

If only Sandra didn’t know her from the inside out.

She stares down at her hands. “I love them, too.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh my god, I love you too.”

Jodie grins triumphantly, holding her head high.

“Fucking millennials, you need constant validation.”

“Yep. All that bloody social media.”

Sandra closes her eyes, personally condemning to death every last troglodyte who bullied this perfect, gorgeous being off the Internet.

Her hand slides across the bench of its own will and curls around five soft, long fingers that should not feel nearly as familiar as they do.

“I’m gonna miss you.”

“Yeah.”

Jodie sighs. It feels like the closing of a book—the end of a chapter they never agreed to write.

“See you at the Emmys?”

Sandra _hmphs_. “If we get nominated.”

“Speak for yourself. I was brilliant.”

“And _so_ humble.”

“Always.”

Sandra looks up, but it’s too late. Wide eyes have already set their sights on her, locking her into their orbit, a rich palette deeper than her years.

Even now, Sandra can’t name the color—elusively chameleon as the woman herself.

She thought she’d be fine with this.

She knew what it was, after all—this sort of thing happens, it just _does_. You make that connection on set, in character, the boundaries blur, you’re only _human_ and emotions are _complicated_ , we never evolved to spend our lives pretending to be someone else, our brains haven’t quite caught up—and then production wraps and you go your separate ways and it’s fine, it’s okay, it would never last anyway, everything was heat of the moment—the blind rush of working together in this intimate, insular state, thrown into one another in the bubble of chemistry you were both hired to cultivate—the rest of the world just. Shuts out.

But then it ends. It always ends. And the clouds lift, you step back into real life, the world as it is, bubble-free, and you realize…

It never would’ve worked.

Sandra squeezes her hand.

“It’s still early. I can sleep on the plane.”

A raised eyebrow and pursed lips. A smirk. A calculated inhale.

_Go on, ask me._

Fame has made her cheeky. Confident. As she damn well should be.

“You up for a drink?”

Jodie smiles.

-

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Your generous feedback and encouragement have been much appreciated—I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I've updated my hellsite™ presence: @ [just-here-for-the-lesbians](https://just-here-for-the-lesbians.tumblr.com/)


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